Girl Talk
by sophie1670
Summary: Rachel chats with her FBI buddy, in from D.C.
1. Chapter 1

"Y'see, Rach, we're special women." Special Agent Lu McKinley started, her unoccupied hand waving in the air for emphasis, "Men are like bras to us. Sure, if we need sex appeal we can swing by any Wal-Mart or Victoria's Secret. For solid support, we can go to Macy's, Penny's or Spanx, if we really feel like we've earned it. And for comfort, we-ell, usually, we're-"  
"Fucked?" Rachel asked, as she opened a fresh bottle of merlot to supplement their dinner and pouring herself a healthy glass.  
"Yup. And for comfort, sex and support? The sacred, holy trinity of women in law enforcement?"  
"Women in general, I'd imagine."  
"Whatever. Who's 'grand scheme' theory is this?"  
Rachel held her free hand, palm out in concession.  
Lu continued, "Well, that's where we try the internet, and it fails us. Catalogues, tend to be miss more than hit. Then we try to get on obscure mailing lists looking for our holy trinity, we buy and return and try on and go home wanting the incessant poking to quit..."  
She snorted, "If you have a point..?" Rachel started slugging.  
"You chase fugitives. By choice. As your livelihood. What the hell made you think a nice guy would satisfy you?"  
Rachel pulled a face at her college buddy, "I need a little 'nice' sometimes, alright?"  
"Then date it! Screw it! Just don't marry it! You need more than 'nice,' you need passion. Understanding. Head-banging sex. Did 'nice' ever give you head-banging sex?"  
Rachel could remember the last time her head had been banged during sex. She refilled her glass.  
"You don't remember it, do you?" her friend pointed out smugly from hundreds of miles away. "Do you even know a man capable of it at this point?"  
Mental images of cowboy hats and quick-drawing hands with a horseshoe ring filled her head. Rachel flushed as her body heated at the thought.  
"Rach-chel? Do you?"  
"I don't date men I work with..."  
"Is this mere wisdom or a learned lesson, speaking?"  
Rachel told no one of her drunken one-night-stand with Tim shortly after he'd started in the office. She'd regretted it the next morning, but it had taken a bit longer to convince him of its status as a 'mistake'. She'd gotten a wonderful friendship out of it, but it had been painfully awkward trying to work with and reject Tim at the same time... Now he was like her baby brother and she loved him... But she still cringed at the idea that she'd taken advantage of the returning vet to rebound from her ATF ex...  
The new bottle wasn't going to survive the night either, she figured. "Both."  
"Is it the same guy you're thinking of?"  
"Nope... Would probably be easier if it was."  
"Sex and the office are never 'easy', darlin'," she said softly, "So, who is he? The one you're thinking of?"  
"Too complicated..." she refilled her glass one more time. Lu tugged the bottle from her for her own refill, scowling her little cat-face at Rachel until Rachel finally sighed, "Raylan. Ok, I'm thinking of Raylan Givens. I slept with Tim Gutterson once. Only once, right after he started, but Raylan..."  
"Raylan's the cowboy from Miami, right?" Lu verified. "The rooftop shooter?"  
Rachel rolled her eyes, "Y'know calling him that..."  
"I know, it's like saying he's not creative enough for a clock-tower. Seems really offensive, now I think about it."  
Rachel snorted into her wine, splattering it everywhere.  
Lu merely sipped hers, watching. "Wasn't that funny, sweetie."  
"Is if you know Tim's our sniper."  
"You slept with a sniper? You slept with a sniper. You lust after an armed man who wears a cowboy hat. Every day. Not just Halloween and parties. But you marry an _insurance salesman_? What the hell, Rach?"  
Rachel put down her glass to bury her head in her hands, "I know. I know, but Joe's really sweet. I feel so awful about everything, Lu. It wasn't fair, what I did to him."  
Lu leant over and waved Rachel's glass at her, "Up for air, darlin'. He'll survive, too pretty not to."  
Rachel picked her head up enough to glare at the "pretty" comment, "I married a man and left him for the same reason."  
"It's called marriage, honey. You marry him because he's charming; you leave him because he's slime. You marry him for sex; you leave him because you're not the only one he's having it with. You marry him because he's nice; you leave him because he's a doormat for you." Lu took another swig, ignoring the death glare, "I can go on..."  
"I'll shoot you."  
"Fair enough. It goes both ways, y'know. It's the little things that they love about us that turn... A strong woman who knows her mind becomes a bitch real quick, if she's ever anything else." Lu topped up her glass and Rachel's, "Nick used to call me his 'Lara Croft with a badge' before he decided I was a corrosive bitch from hell."  
Rachel winced in sympathy; Lu had the misfortune of inheriting her mother's taste in men... At least they always had money. "But Nick is hardly a representative example of the male species."  
"Neither is Joe— don't you think I've lost the plot here, girly— and neither are your colleagues. The issue here is you. You need more than nice. And you shouldn't be settling. You want the cowboy? Go for him."  
Rachel shook her head before letting that thought plant itself in her head with spectacular, sweaty, glistening-Raylan imagery. "Raylan doesn't see me like that."  
Lu snorted, "Make him."

Review ;)


	2. Chapter 2

Oh, yeah, I own nothing.

Ha, one-shot. Apparently, I'm a liar. I'm still learning Rachel, so if something rings untrue, please let me know.

* * *

Lu's advice stuck with Rachel over the next week. Lu was in from D.C. looking into the Barkley mess-he still hadn't been heard from- and Raylan was on a Drew Thompson tailspin with slight assistance from Tim, still avenging Mark's death. Art had watched Rachel hold the fort in Lexington for days before he went to her desk late one afternoon, "Take tomorrow off, alright? Tim can do it. His turn anyway," Art's kind gesture was interrupted as he glared at poor Deputy Nelson Dunlop, still the featured Marshal on Art's shit list. "Take a day. You've earned it."

"Really, Art. I'm fine, besides we're shorthanded with Raylan off."

"Raylan doesn't take days off when I tell him to, thought you'd have noticed. Ok, since he's supposed to be on leave, and you won't take time off when I tell you to YOU get to babysit him tomorrow."

Rachel's eyes widened, "You know he's going to hate that, Art. You really think he needs a babysitter?"

"Orders are orders, Tim'll hold down the fort, you're stuck with Raylan. Keep him out of trouble."

Rachel suppressed a smile as she recalled the last time she tagged along with Raylan, remembering the breeder and the cockfighting and his exceptionally mild tone when she'd hit the breeder with her baton. Babysitting Raylan would certainly be entertaining, even if it probably wouldn't give her an opportunity to "make him" see her that way.

* * *

Rachel spent too much time picking out her clothes. She knew it was stupid, knew she would probably settle on dark jeans, a dark blouse and a dark blazer, but she really like the idea of Raylan seeing her in, oh, I don't know, anything else.

She was ironing in front of an old movie when Lu knocked on the door, Chinese in hand today. "At Ole Miss, I never would have thought I'd eat as much in a day as I do in a meal now…" Lu stated wistfully as she started unloading the bags on Rachel's table. "Gonne be three hundred pounds before I'm thirty-five."

"Can't wait. I'd like to contribute a chocolate cake to the cause," Rachel quipped, eyeing the moo goo gai pan.

"Do you have one here, or do I need to run out and grab one while I can still move?" Lu said, completely serious.

Rachel laughed, it was like watching an old favorite movie, the way Lu didn't change. "Brownies are next to the fridge, beer inside. I have met you."

Lu grinned like a six-year-old, "That's why I love you, Rach. Always prepared." She retrieved the brownies and two beers, with plates and silverware for the takeout before saying, "What's with the ironing?"  
Lips pursed, Rachel pondered lying for a millisecond, "I'm babysitting Raylan tomorrow. How's Barkley?"

"Crooked and, I'm thinkin' probably, dead. Babysitting Raylan… Sounds like a sitcom. Unhealthily smart kids, long-suffering wife, annoying neighbor sticking his nose in with unexpected wisdom… I'm seeing Jere Burns. Maybe Bruce Campbell."

"You still not over your crush on him?" Rachel gave up ironing and tucked in.

"I love the chin. What can I say?" Lu managed around an eggroll, with a swig of light beer. "You got the fried rice?"

Rachel passed it over, "Art was trying to give me the day off."

"And you passed in order to babysit your crush? That's not obvious at all."

"I know. High school Rachel is so ashamed of me right now." Rachel shook her head at herself, "I feel like I'm in high school. It's nuts."

Lu grinned, "It's awful that puberty hits in high school. Like Geometry wasn't enough."

Rachel stopped chewing to think about that angle, "You're right. Puberty should wait until college, then our parents couldn't watch our mistakes either."

"Oh, that would have been awesome," she stretched out the "awesome", "Not that my parents were around to watch them, but there were other witnesses I would have loved to lose."

"Daddy's chief of staff?"

"I dated my first biker just to get under his skin. It should have been my father's… What are you and Raylan doing tomorrow?"

"Dunno. I'll probably just wear jeans, anyway." She looked at the ironing, "Waste of time. Why do we bother?"  
"We're idiots."

"Speak for yourself, blondie," Rachel shot back, reaching for a brownie.

"Usually do. How else do you think I get in so much shit?" Lu grinned, helping herself to more orange beef.

"I wish my daddy were a senator so I could rely on nepotism to keep my job." Rachel said wistfully, "Why do we think Barkley is crooked and dead?"

"I don't want to talk about Barkley being crooked and dead over my meal. I want to talk about sexy gunmen over my meal."

"Is he gross? Have you developed a weak stomach?" Rachel pushed delicately.

Lu scowled, "No, we haven't found him yet. Leads one to believe professionals are involved. Phone records indicate Detroit… You know he was in high school with Nicky Augustine?"  
"I shudder to think who I was in high school with… or you," Rachel pointed out.

Lu rolled her eyes, "You and I don't keep throwaway cells in our cars so our mobster-former-classmates can get ahold of us… That I know of." She kept up a suspicious expression until Rachel offered her a potsticker, then she giggled.

"So, Barkley accuses Raylan of being in Boyd Crowder's pocket, while he's in Detroit's pocket? Bastard."

"Yup," Lu palmed a brownie, "But the fucker's dead, so there is some justice."

"You are an FBI agent," Rachel reminded.

"Right, and as an FBI agent, I am disgusted by the corruption displayed be members of Barkley's team and Barkley himself and, as a law enforcement professional, I do not endorse any criminal course of action. Is that technically correct enough for you, Rach?"

"Don't think it was wordy enough for Bureau standards, to be honest," Rachel sipped her beer.

"Well, like you said, I'm only there because of nepotism," Lu scarfed another brownie.


	3. Chapter 3

ok, I have tried to fix the spacing thing... but, currently beyond my capabilities. Any tips, please PM me.

* * *

Rachel dressed with care the next morning, grateful Lu was as averse to hangovers as she was, and straightened her hair gently and left it down. Jeans, dark blouse, leather jacket, just like she figured. She arrived at the office early, was halfway through her email before Raylan go there.  
Raylan was distracted and somewhat bleary-eyed as he went to his desk.  
"I'm supposed to babysitting you today," Rachel said softly.  
"Well, shit," he sat heavily in his seat, like she'd shot his plans for the day in the ass and he was wondering if he could save them or just put them out of their misery.  
"You planning on shooting someone today? Or just finding a willowy blonde for the afternoon?" she replied coolly.  
Raylan grinned, pondering a willowy blonde, no doubt. And sending a swift kick to a rather callused area near Rachel's solar plexus. "Naw, I was just going to follow up with the ex-wife in the Garland case."  
"In Berea? Sounds a bit boring for my future boss."  
"'Specially if you'll be tagging along, but, that's life..." Raylan pulled a file and stood, "I've just gotta talk this over with Art and I'll be ready to go."  
"Ok," Rachel nodded, catching the Crowder name on the file Raylan was waving. What were the odds that she'd wind up in Harlan before the day was out?  
It took Raylan twelve minutes to hash whatever it was out with Art, another twenty seconds or so to swagger out and put on his hat, and about three to stand in front her desk expectantly. "Are we leaving now then?"  
"Yes, ma'am."  
She pursed her lips and looked up at him through her lashes, "Uh huh. All right then, cowboy."  
Raylan let her lead, his usual chivalrous way. She let him drive, her usual way.  
Rachel knew the whole "driving" thing was a power-play, with LEOs in general. She just didn't play.  
She perused his files on the drive, conversation being seldom and fairly unnecessary with Raylan usually. But she wanted Raylan to talk. About Arlo. About Boyd. About Johnny freakin' Crowder. Even a Harlan tale wouldn't go amiss, if it would get Rachel to stop watching his hands glide over the steering wheel. Stupid Rachel. She squeezed her eyes shut.  
"You ok, Rachel?" Raylan's question wasn't enough out of left field enough for her to open her eyes, but she muttered dryly, "Fine. Thank you. How are you?" before she let her eyes flutter open.  
"Funny."  
"I know. I'm thinking of taking it on the road."  
"I see a problem making any sort of time quota though."  
"Pessimist," she returned her attention to his files, not his hands as he turned to merge onto the off-ramp.  
"So, why'd you opt to babysit me rather than take a day off?"  
"You're educational." Which was true. She learned as much from Raylan as she did from Art, and not the same things. Especially as they were things that would probably piss Art off.  
"I'm educational." Raylan turned to look at her and had to slam on the brakes to make the light, "I'm educational?!"  
Relaxed by getting a rise from him, Rachel nodded peaceably and smiled sweetly, "Very. Like you said you've done this for a long time. You teach Tim and me so much Art would rather we not learn."  
Raylan's mouth worked as his eyes flicked between her mouth and her eyes, "So comforting to be respected by one's peers."  
"Just wait 'til you're the boss, and you're tellin' Tim and me what to do. Imagine Art's eyebrows in their mandatory retirement." His lips quirked involuntarily as his eyes settled on Rachel's lips. "Light's green, Ray-Ray," she purred.  
Plan "Make him" was terribly unformed in Rachel's mind. Mentioning her panties and pointing out he shouldn't mess with her were all well and good, but he wasn't eyeing her up like fried chicken yet. Yet.  
He was watching her mouth more though, she noticed, hoping it wasn't in her head. Hoping the way his dark eyes grew muddy was a good sign. She kept her own eyes on his hands on the steering wheel as he turned into Berea.

* * *

Rachel was behaving...strangely. Like she was... Well, in a woman other than Rachel, it was all the signs she wanted to jump him. Raylan didn't know what the hell Rachel was up to.  
Women were amazingly consistent with Raylan really. They'd look and then pursue and, more often than not, they'd catch him until they were tired of him or vice versa.  
Rachel had never been interested in him. Not sexually and barely professionally. But now she was all "you're easy on the eyes" and "I have green lacy whore's panties" and watching his hands on the steering wheel. His eyes flicked to her briefly, still watching. He unnecessarily backed into a parking space by the college, keeping half an eye on Rachel, still eyeballing him.  
It was all Joe's fault, Raylan figured. She was tight braids with her hair back, uber-professional, future-Director Rachel. Now, Raylan could swear she flipped her hair at him at least twice today. And her sweater... He knew she had a figure. He liked her figure; he did not need to be distracted by her breasts shifting under that sweater. At least not at work.

* * *

It was all Joe's fault. She'd never liked the bad boy thing before she married the decent guy and saw how bored he made her. It was pretty whirlwind, she knew better, but he was an insurance salesman. How bad could he be?  
She had started looking forward to dentist appointments, that's how bad.  
He was sweet. He was decent. Joe was unquestionably a good man. But he would pull the receipts from her bag and file them. And he'd reload the dishwasher after her turn. And he alphabetized her takeout menus and her spice cabinet. He talked to her mother more than she did, too.  
He wasn't good with Nick, either, should have been a clue. Nick was thirteen, not five and not thirty. It was one thing to broach the idea of college with Nick, something else entirely to bring her sister's boy brochures and offer tours of UK. He's 13! You put him near a college girl, way they dress now, and he won't catch a syllable outta anybody until he's outta Kleenex!  
As it stood now, Nick loved that Rachel and Joe were apart, and her mother was giving her that look. Y'know the one, the "you know you've done the wrong thing, young lady, now fix it and don't pretend I didn't tell you the right thing to do in the beginning" look. It was a frickin' annoying expression, really. Maybe if she brought Raylan for dinner, Nick had seemed to like him...

* * *

The Garland case was Rose Garland, 27, white, blue-eyed blonde, 100 pounds soaking wet with a parka, and 5'4". Not quite Raylan's "willowy blonde" as much as an unfortunately sly stick insect. She had pleaded to possession with intent, to avoid trafficking charges, and had been paroled after two years from Mansfield... in Ohio.  
Rose Garland was raised in quote-unquote communes for her entire childhood. Currently, the man she called "Dad" was teaching anthropology at Berea. Dad, aka Walter Lyon, 65, balding, blue-eyed, and rather stocky in his seat, was giving the professor thing a try after a career of books, papers, traveling, and weed. Rose was partial to cocaine, herself. As it was, Walter was reaching in a bag of Oreos when Raylan and Rachel reached his office.  
"Professor Farrell, I'm Deputy Givens. This is Deputy Brooks; we're with the Marshals Service. We're looking for your daughter Rose," Raylan started after Walter waved them in, but didn't offer them a place to sit. Not that he had a seat to offer them.  
"My daughter Rose..." Walter blinked, "Um, blonde, bitty thing? Hattie's girl? Yeah, Hattie coulda been blown away in a stiff wind, Rosie's her girl. Used to be such a sweet thing. Then soon as puberty hit, butter couldn't melt in her mouth unless you could give her somethin'. Tragic, really. Hattie was heartbroken. What's she done now?" He pulled open a desk drawer with an ashtray and a joint.  
Rachel pursed her lips as Walter lit up, Raylan suppressed a smirk and continued, "She's fled Ohio-"  
"Who wouldn't?" Walter pointed out, trying to keep the smoke in his lungs.  
"In violation of her parole." Raylan continued as Rachel eyed the room. "We need to bring her back. Have you been in contact with her lately?"  
Rachel watched Walter, toking and digressing as Raylan asked after Rose. His desk was a mess of books, folders, and tribal photos. A laptop was open but the fish screensaver had been swimming before they came in. The Oreos were dwindling and his coffee was cold with that milky film at the top. His bookshelves were full, double-stacked, and well-thumbed volumes were on two walls. Both the chairs before his desk were stacked with files and papers to be graded.  
Walter barely spared a glance at Rachel until she leant to look at an old photo of Walter, presumably with Hattie, based on the woman's resemblance to Rose, but the bit the drew her attention to the photo was Helen.  
Raylan's Helen, much younger, but it was Helen Cavell Givens as sure as it was Raylan Givens standing next to her. Couldn't have been more'n tweny-five, her red hair parted in the middle and flowing, cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other; staring at the camera with a man's arm over her shoulder, friend-style rather than romantic, smiling. There were four or five people between Professor Farrell and Helen, Hattie was on the other side of the man with Helen, his other arm around her. Hattie's stoned grin and half-lidded gaze was a duller version of her daughter's.  
"That was about thirty five years ago. '77, '78, Hattie was about seventeen, then. We were somewhere around the Virginia border," Walter said, blinking.  
"Harlan?" Rachel asked.  
"Yeah," he lit up like a child, "You recognize it, Deputy?"  
"I do," she passed the photo to Raylan.  
He started, blinked, and said, "Do you remember where in Harlan this was, Professor? Or all the people in here?" Raylan set the photo before Walter.  
"Um," he worked his mouth and his eyebrows, "There's Hattie. Me. Jon, Benjy, Heller, Wendy, uh, him," Walter pointed out the man with his arm around Helen, "he, uh, he knocked over that liquor store in Cumberland. What was his name?"  
"There's no liquor store in Cumberland, Professor," Raylan said with his peculiar patience.  
"Was in 1978, boy," he shot back. "Man, he and Heller were a hot item. Had a sister, too. Those Cavell girls were a hell of a pair. The legs on 'me. Right?" He nudged Raylan and Raylan winced softly. "Sonny somethin', he was head over heels for Heller. Lordy, haven't thought about any of them in ages. What's this got to do with Rosie?"  
"Just observing, Professor," Rachel preempted, noticing that Raylan had already given him a card. "Please, get in touch if you see Rose, sir. We are concerned about her."  
Raylan nodded approvingly as Rachel planted the thought of Rose being in danger, however clumsily.  
Walter's red eyes narrowed but didn't focus, nodding as they left.

* * *

Raylan didn't say anything until they reached the Town Car. Rachel knew better than to push it, so she waited until he said, "Nice touch with the 'worried about Rose' bit."  
"Thanks. You don't remember Helen mentioning a boyfriend around then?" her eyes resumed their admiration of his long fingers entirely of their own volition.  
"When I was eight? Not so much. Doesn't matter anyway, Aunt Helen's long gone," he shifted into drive, fingers glossing over the wheel, after backing out. "No point dwelling."  
"Might be nice to talk about her with someone else who loved her," she said softly, blinking to look at his face, kindly not saying, "It might be nice to talk about her with someone you can stand."  
Raylan heard it anyway, "I know what you're sayin', Rach. I also suspect you need someone to talk to more'n me."  
"Excuse me," thank the good Lord above a woman's mood, and hormones, can turn on a dime.  
"You just left your husband, Rachel," he said softly, pulling into a Cracker Barrel. "Rebound sex with a colleague maybe convenient, but it never pays off." He was so gentle with his rejection, treating her so fragilely, like she was glass. He parked and looked at her. She smacked him across the face.


End file.
